


Time Casts A Spell On You

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, M/M, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: Dean finds a hunt that he thinks to be run o' the mill -- in Palo Alto. Sam thinks he's left the hunting life behind but agrees to help Dean, just this once.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 173
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Time Casts A Spell On You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallingintodivinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingintodivinity/gifts).



> Written for fallingintodivinity for Fandom Trumps Hate. Thank you for your donation!

Dean shows up at Sam’s place just as the sun is setting.

It seemed the best option: hope the night guard is too eager to leave or too engrossed in some shitty cable network show to interrogate Dean much on why he was here at Stanford’s dorms or why his ID said his name was Hector Smith rather than Winchester when he was wanting to see his brother Sam _Winchester_.

(The Dean Winchester ID had been missing for years and, according to Dad at least, it was safer to not have that particular one.)

Now Dean is standing at the door he’s been told is his brother’s — and a potential roommate? The Stanford website said this hall as double _and_ single rooms and Dean doesn’t know which would be worse. He sucks in a breath and knocks. 

Rustling sounds from behind the wall, the snip of a lock coming undone, and Sam standing there in all his Goliath-height and scruffed hair glory. He blinks, hard, squints his eyes and exclaims, “ _Dean_?”

“Heya Sammy.”

Then Dean’s lost for words. He shoves his hands into his deep jeans pockets and stands there. Sam’s last words, “ _I’m leaving and I’m never coming back_ ” drum in repeat through his mind, and all he wants to know is whether Sam is happy to see him standing here almost two years later.

Sam’s face goes from confusion to blank in the space of another blink. “Why are you here?” Then, before Dean can even attempt to answer, “ _How_ are you here?”

“Your night guard sucks,” Dean says. “I’d expect better from Ivy League accommodation.”

Sam keeps staring. 

“Look, I have a case, okay?” Dean says with a shrug. “Probably a simple salt and burn but Dad’s busy with his own ghoul hunt in Maine so I had time to kill, thought I’d stop by. See how my kid brother’s doing on his own in the big wide world.”

Dean hates how his own words squeeze like a vice in his chest. 

“Fine, Dean.” Sam sounds far away, like he can’t quite grasp if this is real or a dream...or a nightmare? Dean isn’t sure. “I’m— everything’s fine.”

Dean pushes the door open a little with his toe. A hazy lamp illuminates a battered wooden desk covered in a spread of papers. The room looks small and Dean can see only one bed. 

“Studying?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam rakes a hand through his hair, muses it up worse. “Do you—do you want to come in?”

Sam pushes the door open further and, yep, only the single bed. At its foot a lowboy the same drab brown as the desk. It’s piled with clothes and a single frame. Dean wants to walk in, snatch it up, see what Sam thought was important enough to showcase. Instead he follows Sam to the other side of the box-sized room and sits on his flimsy rolling computer chair at the desk. Sam drops to the bed.

“So,” Dean says, looking around again. His eyes settle on Sam. “How are you?”

“Busy,” Sam says. He looks so awkward, so uncomfortable. Dean wants to blame this setting — to say Sam could never truly fit into a world from him and Dad — but he has a sneaking suspicion it’s Dean being here that’s causing Sam to sit rigid and pick at his pilled duvet. “I have exams coming up. Presentations. I—I’ve decided on law school?”

He says the last part like a question. Unsure himself. 

“Going from killing monsters to defending them,” Dean says. “Interesting growth there.”

“I didn’t say _criminal_ law.”

Dean glances at the papers on Sam’s desk. Constitutional law, environmental law, something with a bold heading of **can machines think?** then, tucked under it all, a newspaper article dated for three days ago. Dean recognises the page immediately; there’s a copy in his bag. Dean yanks it out and holds it up for Sam. 

“Not doing a bit of hunting on the side?” The roughness in his voice surprises him, but it’s nothing compared to the burning heat threatening to explode from his chest. 

Sam reaches across the distance between them and snatches the paper from Dean’s hand. 

“Well?”

Sam gives a flimsy shrug. There’s a hint of annoyance in his eyes. “It’s a local paper, I saw what could be a hunt. Old habits die hard. I wasn’t going to investigate.”

“Would you’ve even told someone?” Dean says. “Or left people to die rather than keep being the freak?”

The annoyance flashes to anger. Dean finds himself shrinking back. “I’m not responsible for what monsters do, Dean.”

“Tough luck,” Dean says. “The fact you’ve been keeping an eye out for cases means you’re part of this. You can’t just run away and—“

Sam stands. He’s grown even taller since the last time Dean saw him. Skinnier, too. Even more sinewy limbs than hints of bulging muscles; he’s not hunting. That much is clear. 

“I think you should leave,” Sam says. 

Dean can’t hold back the bubble of mirth that feels like it’s being ripped from his throat. “You’re throwing me out? Just like that?”

“Finish your hunt,” Sam says, ice. “And leave California.”

*

Dean picks the closest hotel that’s under $100 for the night, orders in a pizza, and tries to sleep. His dreams are plagued with Sam. Just like when Sam first left. Dean sees his brother killed by every iteration of monster they’ve come up against. 

Vulnerable. 

Alone. 

He wakes bleary eyed with his head full of rocks. Downs an entire pot of coffee and makes his way to the scene of the crime. 

It’s not much to look at. An empty parking lot with shreds of yellow police tape floating around. The nearby buildings are par for the course — office high rises, Starbucks, a few restaurants currently closed. The car park itself is wedged between what Google Maps shows are two businesses: Altar Enterprises and Rosewood Inc. Google itself gives him no information when searching either name. 

He scourers the area until he feels more like some kid playing cop instead of a hunter. He ran into this headlong and blind instead of sitting, researching. 

Dean knows he only took this case to see Sam. There were plenty of other hunters in and around California he could have called instead.

Dean’s about ready to call it a day, either head back to the motel room or try and get Sam back on board, when a tightness hits his chest. He coughs, stretches, tries to walk it out, but the contracting sensation of a hand on his heart doesn’t let up. 

Dean stumbles to one brick wall and braces against it. His fingers are heavy, clumsy, as he digs in his pockets for his phone. His vision is swimming by the time the screen lights up and Dean dials one of the only numbers he can remember by heart. He prays it’s still connected.

*

By the time he hears the pounding of footsteps, Dean is sure this is a heart attack and he’s about to die in a filthy car park. Blood had started dripping from his eyes. 

“Dean!” The word cuts through and in. Dean doesn’t believe in a God, but maybe… “Dean!”

Large, thick hands hoist Dean up by the shoulders and half-carry, half-drag him toward the curb. Dean manages to force his eyes open enough to see Sam. As Sam drags him further and further from the lot, the vice on Dean’s chest begins to give and the nausea rolling in his stomach dissipates. Even his eyes clear up enough that he’s not seeing through a sheen of red.

Sam props Dean up against a building and cups his face in his hands. “What _happened_?”

“I—“ Dean clears his throat, waits until it stops hurting to breathe. He tries to suck in great gasps of breath. “I don’t know. I was working the case…”

He can’t keep going. He wants to sleep.

“I will help you,” Sam says. His hands are still on either side of Dean’s face, covered in Dean’s blood — _their_ blood. “Just this once, then you have to leave.”

 _Why?_ Dean wants to ask. _Why can’t you have me here?_ But he knows Sam won’t give him a satisfactory answer; probably wouldn’t give him any answer at all. 

“Let me get cleaned up,” Dean says, still breathing hard. “Then we’ll figure out this sonofabitch.”

*

“I might have something,” Sam says a few hours later. 

“Oh yeah?”

He spins the laptop screen around to face Dean sitting across the table. 

They’re in a cheap motel room with paisley print on the wall and stains on the duvets. The sink drip drip drips as continuous background music to make up for the lack of non-static TV. This could be a hunt anywhere. This could be them from a time before.

Dean pulls the laptop closer and skins over the article. He raises an eyebrow. “You want to go to a health club retreat after this is all over?”

Sam gives him a withering look. “Read the names of the staff.”

Dean does. Eyes flicking over names and photos with job titles such as ‘personal guru’, ‘nutritionist’, and ‘chakra specialist’. It all sounds like woo woo to him, but Sam’s right— “They’re all victims.”

“Exactly.” Sam comes around behind Dean. His body throws a shadow over the off-white laminate table and makes it look like dusk. He reaches across Dean and points his finger near the screen. Dean can feel his brother’s body heat. “That’s the one from the article.

Sam’s right — the same bespectacled guy with a grainy black and white, inch around photo in the local paper.

“I say we check this out tomorrow morning, gank what we have to gank, and I can get back in time to study for midterms.”

“Yeah.” Dean pushes back from the table and forces Sam away. “Couldn’t possibly miss out on school for something so unimportant as saving people’s lives.”

“Come off it, Dean.”

Dean whirls around to face Sam. “What did you say?”

“If I wasn’t here you’d call Dad or Bobby — or do it yourself. People will survive regardless of me helping out or not.”

“Maybe,” Dean says. His anger has gone from boiling to simmering. “But _you_ were keeping reports on this case. Pretend you’ve left the life all you want. Deep down we both know the truth.”

Sam sighs. Loud. And runs a hand over his face. He looks so much older in the span of a few seconds. “Do you have a room somewhere?”

“Never hard to find something rent-by-the-hour.” 

“You can stay,” Sam says. “If you want, I mean. Floor isn’t comfy.”

“Spent a few drunken nights sprawled out there?”

Sam smiles. Just slightly. “Maybe.”

*

The club smells like chlorine and artificial peppermint. Dean sees a stand of essential oils beside the front desk. Tiny jars — maybe 1oz — selling for $20 each.

“Hello! Welcome to Hydra Oasis! I’m Mac.” A chippy man behind the front desk comes over and shakes both their hands. He’s at least one of the sources of the chlorine scent. 

“Elliott,” Dean says. He shakes Mac’s hand and gestures a thumb at Sam. “This is Austin. We’re new around here, looking for a...health club...to be part of.”

Dean rehearsed those lines a dozen times and they still feel sickly on his tongue. 

“Welcome, welcome,” Mac says again. He now clasps both their shoulders and gives a pathetic squeeze. “Let me just say we welcome _all_ couples here.”

Dean swallows down. Another part they’ve rehearsed but this one leaves its mark in Dean’s stomach. He doesn’t even know how to describe the sensation. Only that Sam grabbing his hand at that very moment sends a dull tug in Dean’s chest and he both wants to move closer and pull away forever. 

“We offer a free trial for up to three classes.” All information Dean already read on the website. He lists off several hippie-sounding titles and Dean lets Sam choose. There had been enough victims in enough different classes that it really doesn’t matter. Dean’s not looking forward to sitting in on any of them.

“I—“ Sam clears his throat and nudges closer to Dean. “ _We_ — were especially interested in your herbal supplements class.”

Dean does hope that one involves weed.

“Excellent, excellent.” Mac clasps his hands together in a smothered clap and reaches back over to his desk to produce a clipboard like magic. Maybe it’s witches. “I just need you both to fill out these quick forms and we can nab you a class within the next hour.”

“That quick?” Dean asks, genuinely surprised.

“We have classes running on a round the clock basis,” Mac says. “Staff just love their jobs.”

Unless they have more than the website let on, Dean doesn’t understand how a team of 8 members — 12 up until a week ago — could keep up with the mirad of classes they supposedly have. 

“Well thank you, Mac,” Sam says. His face is pulled taut with a fake smile that looks genuine enough; how quick he can fall back into this old routine. “We’ll just fill these out and get back to you.”

Mac claps again then leaves them to it, gesturing to some stiff-looking plastic chairs near a wall-length window. Both Dean and Sam sit, Sam immediately starting to skim over the paperwork. 

“It all looks pretty normal,” Sam says. “Name, DOB, health conditions...okay, this is weird.”

Dean tries to pull the clipboard but Sam holds it out of reach. Asshole. “What then?”

“What do you most fear?”

“It’s not _that_ weird,” Dean says. “Sounds like the same woo woo bleeding all through this place.”

“Maybe,” Sam says. He writes down all his information with a fast yet eloquent hand and un-clips the form before Dean has a chance to look. 

“What did you put?” Dean asks, taking the fresh sheet from Sam and scanning it. All pretty par for the course, like Sam said. 

“Why does it matter?”

He’s right, but it still annoys Dean. 

He fills in his own details, lingering on that, yes, kind of strange question. He finally decides it doesn’t matter, not really, but his hand seems to drag itself along and he writes the truth. Or near enough to it. 

_Losing my family._

*

The room looks like an empty gym covered with rugs and smelling of incense. Dean sneezes immediately and Sam elbows him in the ribs. 

“I can’t help it!” He hisses but Sam shushes him and guides Dean over to an empty rug space by the elbow. 

There are already several couples sitting down: men and women, women and women, what looks like a trio consisting of two women and a man, but no other male couples. Eyes look at Sam and Dean expectantly. Dean puts his hand on Sam’s knee and remains rigid. 

“Hello,” a woman nearby says. Her eyes are huge, her pupils almost covering the brown of her irises. Drugs. Has to be. “New here?”

“We just moved here,” Sam says before Dean has a chance to do anything. “Looking for a club to be part of.”

“You’ll love it here,” she practically purrs. She puts a hand on Sam’s knee and Dean feels a strange pang of jealousy surge through him. _Just playing the part_ . “It’s _magical_.”

Sam shifts his knee and her hand falls away. “I’m sure my partner and I will.”

The pang _that_ puts through Dean is even stranger.

The instructor walks in soon after. Dean recognises her photo from the website: Hair half blue, half peroxide white and several pieces of metal protruding from one eyebrow. She’s tiny, must only come up to Dean’s waist, and her eyes take in everyone through narrowed slits. She seems to linger over Sam and Dean, but maybe Dean’s just imagining things. 

“Welcome,” she says. Her voice is as chipper as everyone else around here. “I’m Ursula. Glad to see some new faces. Let’s get started.”

Dean doesn’t know what to expect. The website was incredibly vague and Sam chose this one only because it was said to be the most popular — get in as many potential suspects and/or victims as possible in one go. 

“Please, allow yourself to be comfortable.”

Everyone looks strange, but in a uniformly-strange kind of way. Hipster, Dean thinks. He’s heard the word and it’s fitting. Also fitting in a college town filled with trust fund kids and too much free time. 

But the people filling this room also span the generations. Predominantly young, yes, but a few middle aged and even one older couple with graying hair and deep laugh lines. Is it for show? Are they sucking youth and filling in the gaps to seem inclusive? It’d be a lot easier if they knew what the hell they were up against. 

Dean half closes his eyes when Sam pokes him and hopes he looks comfortable. He’s always preferred chairs to the floor. 

“We ask you to empty your minds, to calm your souls.”

 _We?_ He almost pokes and asks Sam what the hell, but decides against it. They’re supposed to be the type of people who visit these hippie retreats.

Dean zones out for the rest of this meditation-preparation start of the session.

“You can open your eyes. Relax.”

Dean does so and glances around. Everyone does look relaxed. Surprisingly, even Sam. He’s leaning back on his hands, a small smile on his face, and Dean finds himself staring too hard. Too long.

“Now,” the instructor says. In her hands are a tray of small glasses. What looks to be smaller than a shot of brown liquid floats in the bottom. No way is Dean drinking that. Nuh-uh. She can’t expect--

But the glasses are being passed around and swallowed immediately. Smiles on the faces of everyone while they down it. Are they drinking the Kool-Aid? Is this some sort of cult Sam’s put them in?

Ursula reaches Sam and Dean. She’s smiling. Dean can’t read anything malicious in it, but he’s been wrong before. She pushes the tray closer to them. “A health tonic. It will help you with the rest of the session.”

Sam takes a glass. Dean follows. Looks his brother in the eye as he puts it in his mouth. Swallows. It’s surprisingly sweet. Like a ripe banana with a hint of mint. Dean waits for his body to start convulsing, for the people around him to foam at the mouth, but nothing happens.

The session continues.

*

The cafe is huge. Almost like an upscale cafeteria with long bench seats and various glass cabinets of different cuisines spread around. How do they justify so many staff for this?

“Don’t get too excited,” Sam says. “It’s healthy food.”

Dean ignores him and takes a slow meander past each section. Salad cups, smoothies, ‘activated’ food packs, and then — the closest thing to a holy grail — a veggie burger with sweet potato fries. It’s fifteen bucks but Dean doesn’t care. He orders eagerly then goes to find Sam already seated at a four-person booth shaking one of those salad cups. 

“Since when did _you_ become a health freak?” Dean asks. 

“Since Dad didn’t dictate only road stop cafes.”

“Touché.”

Dean takes a bit of his burger — it tastes like he imagines grass would — and chews. Not even a can of soda to wash it down. 

“So what are you thinking?” Dean says. 

“Swallow,” Sam mutters. Then, “I don’t know, not yet, but there’s a free meditation class this afternoon?”

Dean groans. “Didn’t we just _have_ meditation? Why didn’t we go into this as agents? Shut it down, interview everyone, gank the bad guy…?”

Sam stabs at his patchwork salad. “Being a couple was _your_ idea, Dean. Besides, you had a point: we integrate, they have less of a chance to run.”

“Maybe,” Dean says. The sweet potato fries are decent. He abandons the burger in favour of them. “And you agreed because being my husband is the greatest thing ever, huh?”

“If you say so,” Sam says, but he’s smiling. 

“Speaking of husbands.” Dean really isn’t trying for subtle. “Any Ivy League girlfriends?”

A slow rise of colour subtlety fills Sam’s cheeks. “No time.”

“There’s always time,” Dean says. He finishes his fries and pushes the tray away. Sam picks at his salad but doesn’t eat. “You should try and nab one before law school. _Then_ there will be no time.”

“What do you know about law school?”

“Movies.”

Sam’s smiling again. “I’m happy on my own.”

Dean isn’t sure what to say to that. Part of him wants to tell Sam to get out there, to spend his early twenties having _fun_ , but another part he thought he’d buried far away is relieved. Sam hasn’t found someone to replace Dean’s place in his life.

“You almost done?” Sam says. “Meditation session starts in ten minutes.”

Dean pushes off from the table, remnants of burger and most of Sam’s ten dollar salad abandoned. “Let’s go.”

*

The meditation class is held in a smaller, carpeted room, that reminds Dean more of a school classroom. There are less than a dozen people here this time, and Dean recognises only the young lesbian couple from their earlier session. The blonde one smiles and gives him a little wave. 

A man walks in next. Shirtless with loose pants slung low around his hips. 

“I’m Chris,” he says without preamble, then walks over to a CD player and clicks play. 

Music starts quietly. The couples around Dean begin to sway. Then it speeds up. A mixture of psychedelic notes that have no true rhythm. Dean recognises this sound. The same music drummed into his head before the pain in his chest at the car park. 

“Sam,” he tries to say, but his mouth is thick and his body leaden. It comes out as more of a moan. 

Hands are tugging Dean’s arms. Dean tries to pull back against them but his body is too tired. His vision starts swimming. The world slowly becomes a mottled black.

*

“Dean?”

Dean blinks against the darkness and slowly takes in the form of Mac. He sits up, fast, his head pounding and vision blurring again. 

“Sit back, buddy,” Mac says. 

“Where’s Sam?” It comes out as a slur.

Mac seems to understand. “Your husband’s just outside the door.”

 _Husband?_ Dean closes his eyes. Swallows. Right. The case. _Austin_. He hopes Mac didn’t catch enough to notice the slip up. Dean tries to stand but his body refuses. 

“You just had a moment,” Mac continues. “Very normal as your chakras become aligned. We’ve had Fiona here help you out.”

A talk, black woman with colourful beads scattered through her hair looks down at Dean. “It’s okay, love. Just give yourself a moment.”

“You’re... _dead_ ,” Dean says. He can picture the article right now. Only a small footnote in the local paper with a grainy black and white photo. _Fiona Thomas, Mysterious Death_. 

Fiona looks at him strangely. “Lie here a few more minutes.”

“We’ll reimburse your free class!” Mac says. “No need to worry.”

“I’m not worried—“ Dean tries, then changes tact. “Can I see Austin?”

Dean tries to move, to sit up or stand, but he can’t. He can feel -- but not see -- invisible straps cutting into his flesh and, when he looks down, can even see deep rivets marking his wrists. 

“We try to keep the energy in this room neutral. You can see _Sam_ soon enough.”

 _Fuck_.

“What are you?” He demands. “Witches?”

No response. Mac gives Dean one more look before turning and leaving. Dean hears the door slam. He can’t hear any voice outside.

“Of course we’re witches,” Fiona says with a dry laugh. “Such a simple front, don’t you think? Unlimited purchasing of herbs and _people_.”

“Maybe,” Dean says. He spits blood onto the floor. “But faking deaths? What’s that all about?”

Fiona bristles. “Unintentional, that one.”

Dean’s mouth and eye throb. More than that, he wants — _needs_ — to know where Sam is. Dean’s sure his brother can hold his own, but he’s years out of practice all the same. 

“How did you get me in that parking lot? We didn’t find hex bags.”

A sick smile spreads over Fiona’s mouth. “You call yourself a hunter? We can curse _places_ , dear. It takes a more skilled witch, but it’s entirely possible.”

 _Why a fucking parking lot?_ Dean wants to ask, but it’s hardly important. 

“What do you want?” Dean says instead. 

“Cutting to the chase so fast?” She laughs again, humourless. 

“Just fucking tell me.”

“Fear, of course,” she says with a throw of her hands. The beads in her hair jingle. “So easy to suck out and keep.”

That explains the weird questionnaire. Fiona slides a long, painted fingernail the colour of ripe peaches along Dean’s face before giving a quick _flick_ and slicing in. Dean winces. Fiona raises her finger to her mouth and sucks off the blood with disgusting, exaggerated sounds. 

“Not quite as young and healthy as I might like — too much booze and _angst_ — but your brother, on the other hand... Or should I say husband?”

Fiona doesn’t wait for a response. Dean can hear rustling behind him, the clanging of metal and drawers. He tries to crane his neck but can’t. Is Mac back?

“I must say, you did an incredible job convincing almost everyone here of the legitimacy of your partnership. If I couldn’t smell the shared blood scent, I would have been convinced.”

“Are you a witch or a damn vampire?”

“We surprisingly have a lot in common.”

 _But you’re human_. Dean knows this and holds onto it. They can bleed, they can die; and the vast majority don’t even need any special tools to take down.

It was Mac back there. He comes over, a strange silver instrument glinting in his hand.

“It will hurt, buddy,” Mac says. “Sorry about that.”

“We’ll take your essence,” Fiona says. “Then your brother’s -- he’ll be much more of a dessert.”

“If you touch my _fucking_ brother--” Dean starts to say, but Mac advances on him and shoves the skewer into the side of Dean’s neck.

Dean cries out and that’s when the door flies open. Pieces of wood splinter, flying past Dean, and he finds he can move again. He whips his head around. Sam’s standing there, knife in his hand, a ruby bruise just below his temple and snaking around to his cheek. Dean rips the instrument from his neck and shoves it into the center of Mac’s chest. He screams, hands coming up to clutch the blood slowly seeping through his shirt before collapsing face-first to the ground.

“The woman,” Dean says, whipping his head around. “Where is she?”

Fiona is nowhere to be seen in the small, sickbay room.

“Come on,” Dean says, grabbing Sam’s arm and tugging him back into the hallway. It’s silent. Eerily. “Did they do anything to you?”

“Just this.” He touches the wound and winces. “Locked me in a room. Said they’d come back for me but, uh, I think they underestimated how easy these locks are to pick.”

“That’s my boy.”

Sam smiles. Bright, brilliant amongst all of this. They continue walking but the walls start to close in on Dean. He leans against one, breathing hard. Sam’s warm hand rests on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“I think,” Dean says. He feels bile rising in his throat and swallows it back down. “I think whatever they gave us to drink in that room--”

“I didn’t _drink_ it, Dean,” Sam says, incredulous. 

“You...didn’t?”

“You did?!” Sam looks like he wants to either throttle Dean or shake his head in disgust. He has a point. Dean’s just surprised Sam is the one thinking like a hunter while Dean’s sloppy. Falling apart because he’s too focused on his brother and not focused enough on the case.

Dean blinks hard and the room comes back into a clear focus. He keeps going. “Fucking witches, man.”

*

They find the remainder of the clients in a small board office room. Stark and barren apart from a blank white board and long round table. The two women -- the ones who actually offered Dean the time of day -- are bound and gagged, back to back, on chairs. Two other couples are sitting with their heads lolling around and eyes facing the sky.

“Where are they?” Dean demands as Sam makes work of the gags and ropes. 

“We don’t know,” one of the women cries. “Please, my wife--”

The other woman is far more out of it. She would look asleep if it weren’t for the thick white drool leaking from the corner of her mouth.

“I can carry her,” Sam says. “Try and wake them up.”

She does and Dean helps while keeping one eye on the door. They wouldn’t just flee without their prey, would they? Not when everyone knows what they look like and at least their pseudonyms.

The man Dean’s trying to rouse opens his eyes, blinks rapidly a few times, then manages to focus.

“Can you stand?” Dean asks.

He stares at Dean for a long while before shakily getting to his feet and going to stand next to Sam and the woman in his arms. The other woman has the three other people awake. They all look battered, half asleep, but it will have to do.

“Let’s move.”

The group slowly makes their way through more corridors than Dean remembers there being before. Dean has the gun cocked and at the ready. The other bodies stumble around as best they can.

A sound. Only slight. Like a body hitting a wall. Dean makes eye contact with Sam, motions to him to keep going. Sam hesitates for a split second, worrying his lip, but then he nods and goes. Dean heads to the door he thinks the sound came from. It’s safer for Sam to be out of here; he’s out of practice and this is turning out to be much, much bigger than Dean first anticipated. He should never have dragged his brother into this. Stupid, selfish Dean.

This door has a small grated window Dean can just peered into when up on tip-toes. He catches a glimpse of movement, that flash of peroxide blonde hair.

Dean has two options: Go in guns blazing or leave and think up a more thorough plan. His guns-blazing approach in the parking lot yesterday was a bad idea. With a disgruntled sigh, Dean leaves to go and find Sam. They can work something out together. He just hopes there’s still time to save the others.

*

“The bodies!” The woman -- Dean has now gathered her name is Isobel -- is pacing back and forth outside the building, head in hands, repeating those words over and over.

Sam has to explain it. “We...we found a room,” he says, hardly above a whisper, though everyone looks too out of it to be listening anyway. “Everyone else is dead. Just lined up. Like some sort of sick, cheap funeral home.”

“And I found the staff,” Dean says. “A few of them at least. What do we do, Sam? Is anyone else alive in there?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Sam says. “Their bodies were _drained_ , Dean. How do you know we’re not up against some hidden coven of vampires?”

“They’re witches,” Dean says. He remembers their words about life essence, about fear, about wanting to take _Sam_. “Really fucked up ones, but still witches.”

Dean looks over the people outside with them. He stares up at the building. He knows what they should do. 

“Let’s burn it down.”

*

They drive back to Stanford in silence. Dean relents and lets Sam take the keys while he nurses a towel against the cut on his arm from being a little too eager to jump back in and cutting himself on a jagged piece of door. It’s the first time Dean’s been in the front seat with Sam since he first learnt to drive. He remembers taking the wheel and helping Sam guide her around sharp corners and down narrow roads then, after only a few lessons, sitting back and watching his brother take control on his own. 

The main entrance to the dorms is closed at so late an hour, Sam pulling out a keycard and swiping them both in. Dean drips blood on the floor. Dark, thick, but it is slowing and he no longer feels so woozy. They get into Sam’s room without seeing anyone and Sam locks the door with a soft _click_.

Dean presses his back against the door, exhausted, and suddenly everything starts spilling out of him. “I don’t want to do this without you.”

Sam won’t look him in the eye. He busies himself at his desk, straightening papers and rearranging thick textbooks. Dean wants to reach out, toss them to the floor, make Sam look and listen and get in the Impala so they can ride off into the fucking sunset.

“Being with you,” Dean continues. “That case — it's the best we’ve done in years, don’t you think?”

“One case,” Sam says, eyes on the floor now. “I promised you this _one case_.”

“And I promised to always look after you.” Dean can’t help himself. He takes hold of Sam’s hand and squeezes it between both of his until the knuckles crack. “When I was four years old, sitting on the hood of our car — I promised to you I would always, _always_ be there to watch out for you.”

“I’ve never doubted that, Dean,” Sam says. He doesn’t try to move his hand away. “I didn’t come here to leave you. I didn’t even come here to leave _Dad_. I wanted to make a life for myself, that’s all. One away from hunting.”

“Why?” Dean knows he’s pathetic, begging, but he can’t help it. “Why isn’t hunting enough?”

“We never got to choose this life.”

It seems so simple yet so much like Sam had been saying since they were kids. _I want a family. I want a home. I want to be_ normal _._

“I know,” is all Dean can offer. His body aches right from the core. Part of him wishes he never picked up this hunt — the other knows he’d regret it if he didn’t at least try to see his brother one more time. 

“Then why do you want to do it so bad?”

“What else am I gonna do?” Dean’s had this same conversation with himself over and over again. Drunk, sober, missing Sam or with him. It always came back to the same thing. “There’s nothing else in life I was made to do.”

Sam snorts derisively. “That’s a cop out.”

“Maybe,” Dean says. Quieter, “Maybe.”

Their hands are still together. Both rough, veiny. Weather and weapon worn. Sam’s engulf Dean’s like Dean’s once did to Sam’s. So many years, so many changes, and Dean just wants this moment to stay still. Trapped together for all eternity. He squeezes again. Sam squeezes back. 

What happens next Dean isn’t entirely sure, but he has to admit he initiates it. All that desperation and _need_ exploding out of him and crushing to Sam. 

Sam’s lips are hot. Hard at first, then pliable. Letting Dean in. Dean’s free hand sneaking through Sam’s too-shaggy hair and tugging him into a better angle. Dean had dreamed about this for longer than was decent and it lived up to everything. Except the part where he might have to leave Sam in the morning.

“Why are you doing this?” Sam asks when they break apart. Forehead to forehead. Sam stooped down. It doesn’t seem like an accusation of disgust. 

“I don’t know,” Dean says. It’s pure truth. “I just... _always_.”

He drags Sam back for another kiss and Sam responds immediately this time. Tugging Dean backward toward his bed and dropping down. The mattress dips dramatically against their weight. 

Dean makes quick work of Sam’s shirt. Needs to see him, to feel him, to make sure both him and _this_ are real. Sam’s chest is hot, firm, and gives to Dean as he runs his fingers along every curve and sliver of rib. It’s so perfect. Dean will be forever grateful for this moment.

“Dean,” Sam says, breath in his ear.

That does it for Dean. He yanks off Sam’s jeans and lets Sam do the same for him. Shirt. Two sets of boxers. Naked and hard on Sam’s college bed like some sort of cheap budget porno that Dean wants his life to always be.

He reaches out and touches Sam’s cock. It twitches in his grasp, skin already slick and smooth. God, he wants it. Wants all of this. His own cock is pulsating, hard and hot and ready.

“Do you…” Dean glances around the room, though he’s not entirely sure why he thinks lube is going to be conjured up in thin air.

“I, uh.” Sam rummages around in his bedside drawer and produces a bottle of moisturiser. Its label is faded, something along the lines of _Purebelle_. Dean is just happy it isn’t real lube, some twisted part of him wanting to know he is the only guy Sam has ever been with. Could ever imagine being with.

“How do you want to do this?” Sam asks. His voice has taken on an even deeper tone.

Dean has no idea. A large part of him doesn't even care. He just wants his brother in every single way possible. He thinks that decides it for him, that desire and _need_ for Sam.

"I want you inside me," he says. The words feel so right.

Sam slick up his fingers. Tacky and ready. Dean lies back, open and obscene and so fucking horny he thinks he might die. When Sam presses a finger inside it _is_ like a death. One where he's reborn whole again, the broken pieces of himself from when Sam left joining up and being glued together with his brother's touch and breath. Sam works another finger in. A third. At that point it feels amazing. He rocks against Sam's hand, sparks flying up his spine and exploding around his dick.

"Are you ready?" Sam asks.

All Dean can do is nod.

Sam presses into him and Dean’s world turns to stars. He feels full, complete. Like Sam never left him. Like the world never changed. Dean wraps his legs tighter around his brother’s body and thrusts up to meet him. 

The bed slams against the dorm wall and the mattress shrieks no matter how much they slow down. Eventually Sam seems to decide it doesn’t matter and speeds up his thrusts. 

Dean can’t last. Not like this. Not knowing it’s his brother above him, breathing hard, cursing in Dean’s ear and sucking on the lobe.

“Sam--” he says. Breathless.  _ Wanting _ . “Please, Sam.”

Sam wraps a hand around Dean’s cock. The angle is awkward but the sensation is just right. With only the lightest of squeezes, Dean comes on his brother’s cock. Comes against his taut, wide chest and Sam follows inside him.

*

After. Sam half asleep. Dean pressed beside him. Hot and sweaty and oh so happy to be here.

“You don’t have to leave,” Sam murmurs, his lips ghosting across Dean’s cheek and finishing at his lips. “Stay here.”

“Like a rogue roommate?”

Sam gives a languid smile. “Yeah, Dean. Just like that.”


End file.
